


Revivify

by Starlightify



Series: to ground [5]
Category: DCU
Genre: Alien Biology, Dissociation, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jewish Character, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-01 18:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8633989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlightify/pseuds/Starlightify
Summary: Some things end, some things begin, and some continue basically the same. The League and Associates in the aftermath of "Coup de Grâce."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So originally, "To Ground" was just the first three works. But then we realized it was actually pretty mean to end it with the final scene of "Coup de Grâce". So we wrote this up to clarify some things - like that Clark's not going to die, that closure isn't really so simple as "the abusive jerk is dead so we're all good now," and that Bruce has So Many Issues. Have fun.
> 
> This work contains references to character death, references to past abusive relationships, semi-vague descriptions of injuries and medical procedures, and Bruce's Mental Issues and Extreme Guilt Complex.

Zatanna Zatara is heading home after a show when her phone starts playing one of the jaunty, tinny ringtones it came with. She fumbles taking it out of her purse, fingers slipping on the smooth case. It’s been a long night. A long day before that. If this is a spam call, she’s going to turn her phone to wood and call it done.

“Zatanna here,” she says, trying to sound chipper and perky and not like her feet are killing her and her back is probably a chiropractor’s worst nightmare.

The voice is smooth, deep, with a resonant quality that makes Zatanna think of smoky speakeasies and red velvet and heavy curtains, a voice best described as ‘classic.’ The words, less so. “Do you think you could magically extract kryptonite from Superman’s body without harming him?”

“Uh,” Zatanna says. “Hi, Dinah.”

“Hi,” says Dinah Lance, Black Canary and founding member of the Justice League. “Can you do it?”

“Maybe?” Zatanna says carefully. She can almost hear her frazzled mind giving off sparks as she tries to make it work. “I’ve never actually tied to do magic on kryptonite. Or Superman. I probably couldn’t fuck him up any worse, though.” She hopes. That’s just what she needs, headlines that say ‘Superman dead after a stunning miscalculation by amateur magician.’ “Is this related to that whole bomb threat in Metropolis?” It’s been on the news. The whole thing seemed weird and suspect as hell, which is the only reason Zatanna noticed it. She’s kind of terrible at paying attention to current events.

“Yes,” Dinah says shortly. She sounds, all of a sudden, more exhausted than Zatanna feels, which is saying something.. “Teleport to me - I’m on the Watchtower, and we can use all the help we can get.”

“On my way,” Zatanna says. She pockets her phone and takes a deep breath. “ekaT em ot haniD!”

The farther away she tries to teleport herself, the more power it takes, and the less pleasant the process is. The Watchtower is very far away. The process of getting there is not pleasant. Still, Zatanna trusts her spells more than she trusts the weird technological Frankenstein’s monster the Justice League calls the Watchtower. At least her spells are under her control, and she knows how they work and where they came from. The teleportation system the Watchtower uses has none of those comforts.

A semi-familiar scene pools in around her like maple syrup dripping off a table. Zatanna’s only been to the Watchtower a handful of times. Every time she comes back, there’s new stuff, ranging from updated monitor systems and building material to updated furniture. The Flash is apparently hell on rugs. But they try to keep to a certain scheme every time they update - smooth panels, reflective surfaces, modernist sensibilities. Zatanna might have been in this room before, or she might not have been. She doesn’t really know.

“Sorry for not greeting you better, but I should get you to Superman right away,” Dinah says. Her face is grim, lines of worry and anger and frustration standing out hard in her soft brown skin.

“I understand,” Zatanna says, and follows Dinah through halls and doors that have the same eerie familiar-and-not feel of every other part of the Watchtower. The place gives her the creeps. She doesn’t know how Dinah can stand it.

Well.

Probably because she doesn’t fixate on the architecture to try to suppress mounting panic about using magic as medicine on Superman. Healing isn’t really Zatanna’s specialty. Like all forms of magic, it requires either precise knowledge or raw power to work, and while Zatanna’s got the raw power to spare, healing is still tricky. Delicate. Always works better if you have some kind of knowledge foundation to work off of. Zatanna knows some basics about human anatomy, but Superman isn’t human. Looks human on the outside, sure, but the inside… And kryptonite, what does she know about that? Green space rock that fucks up Superman, that’s it. Oh, she’s going to screw this up. She’s going to screw this up so bad.

“Breathe, Zee,” says Dinah. “And brace yourself.”

She opens a door.

It’s some kind of observation deck, hanging over a medical bay with three empty beds and one full one. Superman is laying on the bed that’s second to the right, all kinds of tubes and wires and hookups threading over and through his body. Zatanna covers her mouth. He looks… really, really bad. There are two people in chairs beside him, their heads bowed. Zatanna doesn’t recognize them. She doesn’t ask. It’s not her business.

“In addition to being held for over a day in the presence of large quantities of kryptonite, he was also stabbed through the hands and chest with kryptonite-coated spikes and made to inhale powdered kryptonite,” Dinah says. She has her arms crossed over her chest, her fingers digging deep into the black leather of her jacket. “It’s probably in his bloodstream, definitely in his lungs, and as long as it’s there he’s not going to be able to get better.”

“Okay,” says Zatanna. Deep breaths. Think about what she’s trying to do. Extract the kryptonite - but what is she trying to do with it? She can’t just pull it out of him - that would cause all kinds of damage. Her best option is to teleport it, but teleport it where? Not into the same room, that won’t help. Into her hat, and microparticles will definitely remain, and she might well make her hat permanently toxic to Superman.

She wants to keep the spell simple. Travel along the path of least resistance. Which would be…

“I think I’ve got it,” Zatanna tells Dinah.

“Go for it,” Dinah says. She pulls a device that looks a little like a cross between a radio, a cellphone, and a praying mantis, and says something into it. 

Zatanna doesn’t hear her. She’s already somewhere else, somewhere beyond and somewhere within. Her power. The source and the endpoint. Zatanna feels magic hum through her veins, rushing to her palms and dancing along her fingertips. She takes one more deep breath, and says “etinotpyrK nruter ot ecaps!”

Something yanks, several solar systems away, on the radioactive fragments in Superman’s body. Zatanna feels the pull, and feels the moment when her spell slips into the resonance of like calling to like and the kryptonite vanishes.

Superman begins to glow.

“Uh,” Zatanna says. “I didn’t do that.”

The device in Dinah’s hand chirps. “No negative change observed in Superman’s condition,” says a fluid voice. “Scans indicated decrease in radioactivity.”

“Fucking shit,” Dinah says, in a great exhale. “You did it, Zee.”

“Yay,” Zatanna says. “But, not to be a downer, I mean, but shouldn’t he be getting better? And, also, why is he glowing? I didn’t do that.” Zatanna thinks it’s very important that all parties involved know that she is not responsible for Superman’s fluorescent state.

Dinah pats Zatanna’s shoulder reassuringly. “He does that. It’s a Kryptonian thing,” she says. “And he’s not going to just get better right away. Taking the Kryptonite out is just going to make it less likely that he’ll get worse.”

“Oh. Okay.” That mostly makes sense. Zatanna’s very tired. Possibly she shouldn’t have tried to move herself _and_ a bunch of radioactive alien particles through space immediately after finishing her show for the day. “I’m gonna sit,” she says, and her legs fold underneath her.

Dinah catches her, strong hands beneath Zatanna’s arms. “There you go,” Dinah says. “Maybe you should spend the night here.”

“Oh, sure,” Zatanna says. “Sure. Why not.”

~x~

Bruce doesn’t like being a step behind. He’s not even comfortable being a mere step ahead. Three steps ahead, at least, is his preference. So he is significantly more unhappy than the situation would seem to warrant when Commissioner Gordon calls to tell him that the Joker was found dead in his room at Arkham.

“We haven’t had an autopsy yet,” Gordon says, “but something tells me the cause of death was the bullets that splattered his brains all over the walls.”

“Hrm,” Bruce says. He’s wearing a decadently soft shirt and plaid pajama pants, because Alfred made him change out of the Batsuit when he got back to the manor. Still, it’s easy to slip into the mindset that comes with the armor. It’s less like putting on a costume and more like coming home. “Is there enough left to match dental records?”

“Dental records, fingerprints, and blood,” says Gordon.

“The bullets could be a cover for true cause of death.” He slept fittishly for about an hour, not long after he was kicked out of the Watchtower. Diana said that he would do no good hovering, and apparently he was projecting stress and fear so loudly it was making J’onn feel ill. Bruce’s adrenaline rush was starting to fade and going for over a day without so much as a five-minute nap was catching up with him, so there wasn’t much he could do besides try to get some rest.

But his sleep was far from restful, and the fourth time he jerked awake after dreaming about being trapped in an elevator that was plummeting into the sea, he decided to give up on that. He’s been reviewing all the files he has on Clark’s biology, looking for things they might have missed, things that could save or damn him. Commissioner Gordon’s call would almost be a welcome distraction, except that Bruce doesn’t typically welcome distractions, and especially not distractions based around the knowledge that someone had been stalking the Joker with the intent to kill and Bruce hadn’t known about it.

He focuses on that mystery rather than the swirling maelstrom of feelings surrounding the Joker’s death and the present circumstances. He knows mysteries. He can lose himself and everything else in them.

“We’ll check in the official autopsy. It was quick, whatever killed him. The killer was in and out in a matter of minutes, and there’s no sign of a struggle.” Gordon exhales heavily. “I’m going to have to ask you not to touch this one.”

Bruce can almost hear the sound of a record scratching as his investigation plans screech to a halt. “What,” he says.

“You and the Joker are too linked in the public eye. There’s going to be people who think you killed him. I know you didn’t,” Gordon says quickly, as if he thought he’d need to cut off Batman’s protestations, “but if you get involved, it won’t go well for anyone.”

Bruce can see the logic of Gordon’s request.

That does not make him like it. “Unofficially,” he begins.

“No,” Gordon says. “I want this done as clean and official as possible. I’m sorry, Batman, but I won’t help you, and if you try to investigate on your own, you might very well make things worse.”

He should be on this. The Joker was his problem. He made the Joker what he was, in many ways, providing an image for the Joker to reverse. The Joker has been hurting people with the intent to get to Batman for years. To step back from his death, to deny him the kind of investigation Batman would undertake for anyone else killed under these circumstances…

It would almost be like…

(Like he wants the killer to get away with it because Bruce wanted the Joker to be dead.)

“Understood,” Bruce says. He hangs up.

Organize steps. Figure out a course of action. Do not process emotions. Do not acknowledge emotions.

He needs to contact Diana. Tell her the Joker is no longer an issue. Have her pass the information on to Harley and Ivy. Then he should tell Selina. He’s not sure why, but he feels that she should know. And then…

A step at a time. Keep moving.

~x~

“But he’s really gone,” Harley says. It’s not the first time she’s asked. Not even the fourth. He’s haunted her for so long, been around every corner and hidden on the backs of her eyelids. She’s only known him a few years. It feels like he’s always been there. Like he was inevitable. Waiting for her to fall into him.

And now he’s dead.

“He has perished,” confirms Diana. She’s being so patient. Not getting mad that Harley’s just saying the same thing over and over. She tilts her head, birdlike, a mannerism that Aella shares. It means she’s trying to think of how to appropriately phrase something. “Would it grant you closure to see his remains?”

Ivy is holding tight to Harley’s right hand. It’s the only thing keeping Harley from feeling like she’s left her body completely. She thinks about Diana’s words, maybe for a minute, maybe for an eternity. The scene doesn’t change. No one moves or tries to rush her. “Not closure,” Harley says finally. “I dunno where I could get that from. If it’s even real. But… I think I gotta. Or I’ll regret it, yanno? Always wonder if he’s really gone.”

She’s going to wonder that no matter what. Seeing the Joker’s body will just give her something to fight the doubts with.

“I understand,” Diana says. “I will speak with Batman and arrange for you to see the body.”

“Thank you,” Harley blurts. “For everything. For the clothes and the counselling and lettin’ us stay and all the things you’ve done for us even though you don’t hardly know me.” She wants to keep going, but stops herself, holds her tongue in case in thanking Diana she’s made her realize just what a bad decision she made letting Harley onto the island in the first place.

“These actions are not deserving of gratitude,” Diana says. “To provide for women in need is a sacred Amazon obligation.” The way she says the word reminds Harley not of begrudging vows and unhappily owed debts, but of mitzvot. Commandments accepted in faith. Hallowed duty.

Harley ducks her head and sort-of shrugs. “Well, I want you to know I appreciate it, ‘s all,” she says, much quieter than before.

“I would place my hand on your shoulder, if you would allow it,” Diana says.

“Go for it,” Harley says.

Diana rests a broad, callused palm on Harley’s shoulder. It’s like being touched by a statue or a pillow or a statue covered in a pillow - Diana does not give off body heat, but there is a solid reassurance to her. “Your time here does not have to be at a close simply because the man who pursued you has died. You are welcome to stay for the rest of your life, if you so desire. And the same is true for you, Ivy,” Diana says, inclining her head.

“Oh,” Ivy says. She squeezes Harley a little tighter. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Harley says. She feels dizzy. Giddy, too. “I dunno if I wanna take you up on living here forever, but… It’s real good to know I got options.”

“Of course,” Diana says. “There is no rush for you to choose, nor need for any decision you make to be final. Themyscira’s shores will always be open to you.”

And the thing is, Harley thinks she’s starting to believe it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for references to medical stuff, including getting very very stoned from being on painkillers.

Clark’s mind is full of fuzzy dogs.

The fuzziest of dogs. All laying around and piling on each other. It’s hard to think, when your brain has been replaced by dogs, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He’s sleepy. Also kind of thirsty. But very floaty.

He opens his eyes. His pa is sitting next to him, reading a book. It’s battered, corners worn down and spine creased. Either one of Pa’s old favorites or a new find from a secondhand store. He can’t see the cover. His eyes feel grainy and sore, and he doesn’t want to try using x-ray vision to read the words through his Pa’s fingers.

“Hi Pa,” Clark says. He sounds far away to his own ears.

Pa starts, pages fanning open as his thumbs fly up. “Oh, _Clark_ ,” he says, voice catching. “Thank God.” There are tears streaking down his face all of a sudden. Clark would reach up to hug him, but Clark’s not entirely sure whether he has arms or whether he can use them. “How are you feeling, kid?”

Clark thinks about it. He goes a little bit cross-eyed from the effort. “Dogs,” he says.

Pa gives a surprised snort of laughter, then covers his mouth with one hand. “That good, huh,” he says. “You scared the hell out of us, Clark.”

“Oops,” Clark says. “‘M okay now.” Distantly, he recognizes that he’s probably on a lot of painkillers and is probably going to feel like hell later. Presently, he feels like he’s made of cotton candy. He looks at his Pa, and something occurs to him. “Hey, you’re in space.”. Clark’s offered to take his parents up to the Watchtower before, but only Ma took him up on it. Pa said that he had quite enough excitement in his life without experiencing the wonders of Zeta-Beam transportation. He wasn’t any keener on being taken up in a League shuttle.

“Sure am,” Pa said. “I have to say, this is a view of Earth I never thought I’d see.”

Clark’s mouth is dry. He pokes himself in the cheek with his tongue. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “Is Ma…?”

“She went to the bathroom. Should be back any second,” Pa says. He puts his hand on Clark’s abdomen, above Clark’s heart. Clark doesn’t really register the pressure, but he feels his Pa’s hand as a rebound in his pulse. “My boy. I’m so proud of you for all you’ve done. It scares me to death the danger you’re in, but I’m so proud to have a child who helps people.”

“Learned from you and Ma,” Clark says, and smiles. He feels the skin on his face pull with the movement, sort of like he has a sunburn. Yeah. He’s definitely going to hurt when he gets off the painkillers.

“It’s-” Pa starts, and then Clark hears a door open. “Martha! He’s awake!”

“Oh Lord!” Ma says, and Clark hear her shoes slap over the metal floor. “Baby, thank goodness.”

“Hi Ma,” Clark says. He smiles again, drifts on the sensation of rocking back and forth gently. “I’m on a boat.”

“A what now?” Ma says. She enters Clark’s field of vision, hair loose around her shoulders, tired lines in her face. Clark wonders how long they’ve been here. He wonders how long he’s been here. Time is weird. It just… happens.

“He’s very high,” Pa explains.

“Like a wallaby in a poppy farm,” Clark adds helpfully. “What were you saying, Pa? Before Ma came in.”

“Oh. That,” Pa says. “Well, I was just saying. You being a good person isn’t about me and your Ma. Maybe we did our best to model it for you, but it’s your own choices that you made that make you a good person.” Pa scratches the back of his head. “That’s all. I want you to take credit for your own goodness.”

“You’re nice,” Clark says. “You’re both so… nice.” He yawns. “I’m sleepy.”

“Get some rest, little cat,” Ma says. “You need it.”

~x~

Lois is going to explode.

She’s pacing in Selina’s beautiful house, ready to rip the beautiful decorations off the beautiful walls. She hasn’t been to work in three days, citing a family emergency to explain her and Clark’s absence. No more details than that. She’s been crafting cover stories since she was a teenager with a box of cigarettes beneath her mattress and a woman’s t-shirt rolled up in her boxers, and she’s only gotten better with time, but she’s got too little to go on and too many risk factors to make up anything more elaborate without putting herself in danger of being caught. Which means she can’t go to work, because there will be _questions_ If she says Clark is missing, Perry will want to know how the investigation’s going. If she says Clark is in the hospital, Jimmy will want to visit. If she says Clark is home sick, everyone will eventually want to know why he’s _not_ in the hospital if he’s been sick for so long. And above all, if Clark doesn’t make it through this…

It’s looking much, much better than it did when they first got him back. Exposed to kryptonite for over 24 hours, including kryptonite-coated spikes in his hands, electrocuted, forced to breath in a toxic mix of fear-inducing chemicals and kryptonite, sliced in the chest with a kryptonite-coated spike, and who the hell knows what else… He’d looked three-quarters of the way to dead already.

Lois hadn’t been sure if he’d make it through the next few hours.

But between the care of Amazon doctors and the efforts of an honest to fuck magician, he actually seems to be getting better. He’s not getting worse, anyway. Having the kryptonite out of his system probably helps tremendously. 

Now all that’s left is waiting.

Lois hates waiting.

“Sweetheart, I can hear you thinking,” Selina says, leaning over the railing at the top of the stairs. She’s been trying to change her sleeping schedule so she can be there when Lois is awake, but years of being semi-nocturnal can’t be undone in a few days.

“That’s ridiculous,” Lois says. “Go back to sleep.”

Selina vaults over the railing instead and lands a few feet away from Lois. “No,” she says. “I’m awake now.”

“Because I woke you up,” Lois says. “That doesn’t count.”

“Hmm,” Selina says. She stretches, and the soft material of her sleep shirt rises over the hem of her underwear. It used to be Lois’s sleep shirt. And it had been big enough on her that the neckline tended to slip off one shoulder and the hem reached her mid thighs. On Selina, it’s only a little long. Lois should have expected that Catwoman would be a no good, rotten clothing thief. “I say it counts. What have you eaten?”

Lois frowns.

“Have you eaten anything?” Selina asks.

Lois shrugs.

“To the kitchen with you,” says Selina, and flings Lois over her shoulder unceremoniously.

“Hey!” Lois yells. “I can walk!” She kicks her legs for appearances’ sake, but doesn’t really try to get down. There’s not much she can do to get Selina to drop her that wouldn’t actually _hurt_ Selina, and Lois… kind of likes being carried. By certain people. A very select few.

Lois’s phone gives one last forlorn buzz against the stone countertop before shutting off as Selina and Lois cross the threshold to the kitchen. “Put me-” Lois starts, but Selina’s already bending over, letting Lois’s feet touch down on the floor. Lois runs to her phone. She has three missed calls from the Kents.

Her heart drops into her stomach and sits there, an undigestible weight.

She enters her passcode wrong twice before she finally unlocks her phone, fingers twitching. Oh no. No no no. Selina comes over to stand beside her, but keeps her distance - Lois hates to be touched when she’s upset. Lois mashes her finger down on the call icon and lets out a startled shriek as her phone starts buzzing again. The Kents. She accepts the call, puts her phone to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Lois, honey, is that you?” Martha Kent says.

“Yeah,” Lois answers.

“You’ve got to remember to keep your phone on you,” Martha says. “Now I understand what Clark complains about when he says you never answer your calls.” She sighs. “I know I can be pretty bad about it too, but you grew up with cellphones, it ought to be a habit for you.”

“Is Clark okay?” Lois says. She doesn’t scream it. She wants to. Every second she doesn’t know why she has so many missed calls, her brain generates a new horrible scenario.

“He woke up a bit ago! Went right back to sleep after, but he talked to me and Jon, seemed about as with it as can be expected given all the painkillers. I would’ve called you and had him talk to you, but he only said a few things to me before nodding off.”

“He woke up for a bit,” Lois tells Selina, and Selina smiles. “Thank you,” she says into the phone. “It’s good that he woke up, right? It means he’s going to be okay?”

“I hope so,” Martha says. “There’s still a lot we don’t know about how he works, but I think it’s a good sign.”

Martha doesn’t play games with the truth. It’s something Lois likes about her. That’s what Lois reminds herself of as she tries to head off her worries. Martha’s saying it’s unsure because it’s unsure, not because she’s trying to gently break it to Lois that Clark’s dying. If Martha says she thinks Clark waking up is a good sign, she means she thinks it’s a good sign. “Thank you,” Lois says again.

There’s some rustling on the other end, then Jonathan says “Do you want to come up here? Probably he’s not going to wake up again so soon, but he looks better. Might be reassuring.”

Lois bites her lower lip. She doesn’t think of herself as a squeamish person, but seeing Clark as hurt as he was, raw skin and blood and burns… she couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t handle it even after he was cleaned up and bandaged and hooked to machines. She feels like the worst girlfriend ever for leaving him, coming back to Earth and doing absolutely nothing with her time.

Selina takes the phone out of Lois’s hand, covers the receiver. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she says. “If anyone thinks less of you for it, I’ll feed them to my cats.”

Lois shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I. I want to go.” She does. She wants to go. Wants to prove to herself that Clark is still alive. Jonathan doesn’t play games with the truth, either, and if he says Clark looks better, then Clark looks better.

“Okay,” Selina says. “Do you want me to come, too?”

Lois shakes her head again. Selina’s only offering for Lois’s sake. It’s awkward, for Selina, to be on the Watchtower. The first time she’d ever been there was a few days ago when Lois had gone up to see Clark, and Lois knows it wasn’t a fun experience for Selina. Selina’s edgy when she’s around the League in costume, and even out of costume, she’s nervous. Nervous about someone making the connection between her identities. Nervous about someone going from that connection to figuring out Batman. Nervous about someone trying to arrest her for her many, many thefts of items significantly more expensive than Lois’s shirts. Lois doesn’t want to put Selina in that position. “The Kents and I get along fine,” she says. “I’ll be okay.”

“If you’re sure,” Selina says, and hands Lois’s phone back.

“Yeah,” Lois says. “Can you have someone set up a Zeta Beam for me?”

“I’m on it,” Jonathan says.

~x~

Selina makes herself a snack before calling Red Hood. She’d made Lois eat a protein bar before going to the Watchtower, because low blood sugar is nothing to fuck around with, and Lois with low blood sugar is an absolute nightmare for herself and the people near her. Selina doesn’t want to be hypocritical, so she eats some trail mix while fending off cats who are absolutely certain that they should get to eat anything she eats.

And then she calls Red Hood.

“The number you have dialed is no longer in service,” says her phone.

“Fuck,” says Selina.

She knew he’d given her the number for a burner. She hadn’t thought he’d turn it off before she paid him for the hit. That he’s disappeared without picking up his hundred thousand… It’s concerning, to say the least. Especially because she knows he has history with the Joker and doesn’t know what killing the guy might have done to Red Hood’s head.

She hopes he’s okay. There’s not much else she can do, beyond telling the cats of Gotham to keep an eye out for him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for a bit of an epilogue. 
> 
> Warnings for references to character death, references to past abusive relationships, semi-vague descriptions of corpses, and Bruce's Mental Issues and Extreme Guilt Complex.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says. “It is bad enough that you brood in the cave. I must ask you to refrain from brooding at the dinner table.”

Bruce blinks himself back to a semblance of awareness.

Oh.

Dissociating again.

“Sorry, Alfred,” he says.

“I know you have a lot on your mind,” Alfred says, gentler than before, “but the last thing you ought to be doing is retreating so far into your head that you forget about the outside world.”

“I know,” Bruce says. He looks at Tim, who is pretending, very badly, to not be listening to the conversation. “What did I tell you about eavesdropping,” he says.

Tim swallows a mouthful of pasta, then says “Don’t do it if you can’t do it without getting caught.” He pokes a meatball with his fork and gives Bruce a pleading look. “But that’s not fair, because you always catch me!”

“Then get better,” Bruce says. He regards his own dinner. He’s barely eaten any of it. He’s tasted even less. Despite the reassuring news that Clark regained consciousness for a time today, Bruce is still wound up like a spring in a mechanical death trap over the investigation he’s been barred from conducting.

It would be so easy to get around Commissioner Gordon. Even without Barbara’s help, because he wouldn’t put her in that position. He could put the evidence together on his own, pursue the Joker’s killer the same way he’d pursue anyone else’s.

Since he’s not…

Bruce is not the type to judge all murders equally. A survivor killing their abuser is different from a hitman killing a mark is different from a mobster killing a rival is different from a thief killing the people they’ve robbed. But he is also not the type to let murders go unsolved. Unsolved by him, anyway. He’s helped a few people the system wouldn’t treat kindly cover up some justified murders.

And if ever there was a justified murder…

But no. He doesn’t know that. Doesn’t know who killed the Joker or why. And regardless of the Joker’s crimes, this was still an execution, carried out by an unknown agent. He ought to be working this case. By not working this case, he’s saying that regardless of the circumstances, he believes the Joker deserved to die. And by saying that, he’s saying… what? That he can judge who should live and who should die? That he can sign off on other people’s deaths? That he has been so close to killing the Joker himself that he’s grateful someone else got to the man first?

That’s what scares him.

That’s what he can’t let go of.

Something flies at Bruce’s forehead, and he catches it reflexively and looks up. Tim still has his hand up from throwing the - Bruce examines the object in his hand - crumpled up piece of tinfoil that looks like it might have come off a chocolate of some kind.

“You were doing it again,” Tim says remorselessly. “Come on. Save some brooding for tonight’s patrol.”

Bruce considers the piece of tinfoil. Then he flicks it at Tim’s head and strikes a direct hit. The tinfoil bounces off Tim’s eyebrow and falls on the floor. Tim’s mouth falls open, and his eyes flick from the tinfoil to Bruce in a display of exaggerated shock.

Alfred sighs. “Could we, perhaps, have a nice dinner without the involvement of projectiles?”

Bruce and Tim look at each other. “Probably not,” Tim says.

“Very unfortunately,” Bruce adds.

Alfred radiates disapproval.

~x~

Harley’s seen a lot of dead bodies in her life.

The first ones were cadavers in medical school. She saw a lot of them. Cutting away their skin and subcutaneous fat, pulling on their muscles, palpitating their organs. Then she did her first year of residency at an emergency clinic, and she didn’t just see dead bodies, she saw people actually die. She wouldn’t say she was numb to it, just that it became… a part of life.

But it was different the first time she saw someone she knew die, when the Joker was breaking out of Arkham and she was helping him. He shot them in the chest and in the face. They fell. She froze. The Joker grabbed her arm hard enough to bruise and hauled her after him.

And it was different, again, to see his body. Whoever killed him was clearly trying to make damn sure he was dead, but all the gore and the holes in his head isn’t what’s sticking with her.

It’s his teeth.

His smile.

His nose was broken. His hands, too. But his mouth… it was smeared with blood, but it was the same. His teeth, most of them porcelain. His thin lips. It was so easy to imagine him smiling at her. All she had to do was look back up to the rest of his head to remind herself that he wouldn’t, ever again, but still… she kept feeling like she could see him starting to grin. She doesn’t know what’s worse, the feeling that he might come back, or the sneaking, traitorous wish that he will.

She’s back on Themyscira with Ivy. The League plugged all necessary information into the teleporters, so they could beam over to Gotham and beam back. The League has so much sci-fi shit. She wants all of it. She wants none of it. She can’t imagine the full scope of the damage their shit could probably do, but she can try to, and it’s horrifying and _tempting_.

Hard to keep herself together. Hard to keep her thoughts where she wants them. But she’s tired of falling apart. It’s far from over yet, but she needs a break from breaking down.

“Hey, Ivy,” she calls, through the open bathroom door, the scissors she found in a bathroom cabinet in hand. “Can you help me with something?”

“Sure thing, Harl,” comes Ivy’s voice, floating and popping in a way that indicates she’s more than a room away. Harley hears Ivy’s light footsteps, imagines she can already smell the wet-leaf-green scent of her skin before Ivy’s even in sight. “What’s up?” Ivy asks, leaning against the doorjamb, hands in her pockets. She’s wearing overalls and a crop top, and she's so pretty Harley could scream. A happy scream. A very happy scream.

Instead of screaming, Harley offers Ivy the scissors, handles first. “Will you cut my hair?” she asks. “All of it. All the way down to my scalp. I’m sick of straightening it an’ dying it an’ I want to start it all over.”

Ivy takes the scissors without hesitation. “Of course,” she says.

When Ivy’s done, the floor is covered in coarse blond locks, and Harley’ head feels light in a way it hasn’t felt since… maybe since she was a kid, hair cut short because that’s how little boys were supposed to wear it. She doesn’t look like a boy though, not even with her scalp bare save for the peach fuzz that nothing short of a razor will skim off. Her eyes look bigger with her hair gone. Her cheekbones more defined. She has tiny pale spots on her scalp that she’s never seen before, foreign constellations. Harley reaches up and runs her fingertips along her crown.

“You look good,” says Ivy, kissing the top of Harley’s head.

“You know what?” says Harley. “I think I do.”

And she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This arc has been a wild ride - this is the absolute longest fic we've ever written by quite a lot. It's been hugely encouraging to see how many people enjoyed it. Special thanks to the people who comment - y'all are the real MVPs.


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